Life, Like a Face Between Your Palms by gaydhros  

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Chapter 2

Fingon endures.

Content warnings for this chapter: Brief allusions to past cannibalism on the Helcaraxë

Thorondor came the following day.

The King of Eagles landed beyond the fortress gates, the beating of his mighty wings blowing back Fingon’s hair where he stood. Fingon bowed low and then straightened, resolute under Thorondor’s piercing gaze.

“Where is he?”

He did not need to be told that his father was dead.

Thorondor spoke in a deep, booming voice that seemed to shake the ground underfoot. “The body of the High King has been brought to the domain of your brother, to there be laid to rest.”

“Turgon?” said Fingon, aghast, so taken aback that he forgot himself. “Where is he? And why should our father not be brought to rest here, in his home, at the seat of his power?”

The King of Eagles was silent. Fingon’s face burned.

“Valiant were the final deeds of the High King,” intoned Thorondor at last. “Long did he stand against the Enemy, and wounded him with seven wounds. Yet in the end, he could not stand against the might of the Black Foe.” After a beat, he added, “No Elda could.”

Fingon realized then that while knowing his father was dead had been one thing, hearing the truth of it spoken aloud was entirely another. Beneath his feet, the earth was crumbling away to dust. He took a deep, steadying breath.

“Thank you, Lord,” he heard himself say, “for bringing me this news.”

The King of Eagles extended one great claw. In it was held the golden crown of his father. Fingon took it as though it were made of glass.

Thorondor inclined his feathered head. “Hail, Fingon Nolofinwion, High King of the Noldor East of the Sea. Long may he reign.”

He turned and leapt into the air, soaring high with the beating of his wings and speeding north. Fingon stood alone upon the snow, his fingers numb, his father’s crown clutched in his hands.

The weeks that followed were the longest of Fingon’s life.

There was an endless procession of people, everywhere, all the time. Everybody wished to deliver their condolences, or needed his ear or his input or his signature, or else wanted to know whether he wished to have his books moved into the royal library or to his father’s study, which was apparently now his. Most of Fingolfin’s belongings were quickly moved into storage and Fingon’s were brought to the apartments of the High King; his father’s closet was now full of his clothing, his favoured bedlinens were on his father’s bed. Messengers were dispatched to bring the news to what kingdoms of Beleriand still remained.

Fingon stepped into his father’s schedule, his father’s routine, his father’s life, and did not allow himself to waver. One change he made, and one change only: he replaced his father’s esquire with his own. It felt cruel to remove his father’s esquire from a position he had held for centuries, but the man proved incapable of meeting Fingon’s eyes without tearing up, and Fingon could not stand it. His own esquire, Gwánthon, had been serving him since Dor-lómin. He understood Fingon and the way he liked things done. And Fingon was fond of him; with his father now gone, Gwánthon might have been the person who knew him best in all of Hithlum.

And so it was that Fingon fell into the work of kingship. He performed well his duties, he dragged himself through each day while his heart grew ever heavier. At night he collapsed into his father’s bed and watched the sky out the eastern window until it began to lighten with the first pale clouds of dawn, sleepless in spite of his exhaustion. He reached out with his thoughts to Maedhros; over and over again, he reached out. Each time he was met with only the wall Maedhros had thrown up between them that final night in Araman, cold and utterly impassable.

That did not stop Fingon from reaching. There was a hollow sort of comfort to be found in extending his hand into the darkness, even when he knew there was no one there to reach back.

The lack of a body did not preclude the possibility of a funeral. The Helcaraxë had not permitted that they waste their dead, and those who had endured its crossing had no shortage of rituals for mourning in the absence of remains.

At first, Fingon had argued against the building of a cairn. What sense was there in wasting stone needed elsewhere when no body would lie there? But in the end he was swayed— in part because a public gravesite might make mourners less likely to leave their tokens of grief at the fortress gates, but mostly because he could not muster the energy to fight about it any longer.

When Fingon presided over the dedication ceremony some weeks later he wore black funerary robes and a veil that shrouded his face. It was not the Noldorin way, but had his father not been half Vanya? Would not Fingolfin want Vanyarin customs honoured at a ceremony such as this?

In truth, Fingon did not know, but it was a relief to be covered so. This way he did not need to worry about making the muscles in his face cooperate as they should, or calling forth an appropriate tear to his eye at precisely the right moment. There was little Fingon wanted to do less than cry in front of his people, but perhaps the only thing worse would be to be witnessed feeling nothing at all.

Fingon wished he could cry. Crying was meant to be cathartic, was it not? But try as he might, tears evaded Fingon just as surely as sleep.

Everywhere he turned were looks of pity. Fingon endured it until he could endure it no longer, until he snapped at a young serving girl who had not been deserving of his wrath. Later, he sent Gwánthon to her quarters with sweets and apologies, but after that day all of the servants averted their eyes in his presence. Somehow, that was even worse.

The most unbearable part of all was the praise his father’s death inspired.

How brave his father had been, all the courtiers would say any time they could catch Fingon’s ear, each vying for his favour and hoping this would win it. How fiercely their king must have fought to have wounded the Enemy as he had— indeed, it was not a lie to call Fingolfin the strongest of the Noldor, valiant and fearless beyond measure. They constructed a hollow figurine of a hero, a selfless martyr, one devoid of flaws and fault. There was nothing Fingon could do except nod, and force a smile, and let them.

The last dregs of winter melted into the wet weeks of spring, and each day passed much the same. Some of his father’s advisors suggested that he take a break; things were dire, yes, but grief had a habit of making room for itself whether you allowed it to or not. But how could Fingon possibly rest now? Everything was urgent in the aftermath of the Bragollach.

Trade routes desperately needed to be rebuilt, a task that would require funds and time and resources that were already in short supply. Many of their trade partners had raised their fees to exorbitant heights, citing the dangers of the terrain and the threat of roaming Orc bands. The ones who had not raised their fees had ceased trade with Hithlum entirely, deeming the risk simply too great.

The Ered Wetherin might have saved Hithlum’s croplands from the worst of the flames, but nothing had been spared from the cloud of smoke and haze that had hung in the sky over Beleriand for well nigh a year. For months on end the sun had barely reached the ground, and this year’s crop yields were projected to be even worse than the last; far short of what was needed to feed a people.

People would go hungry. From hunger stemmed conflict, and from conflict stemmed unrest, and tensions in Hithlum were already higher than they had been in centuries. Yet it was not only Hithlum Fingon now had to worry about, and while no further news had come from Himring, what few reports had been received from Nargothrond spelled much the same story.

So Fingon put everything else aside, scrounged up what little strength was left to him, and dealt with it, for this was what it was to be King. Never mind that exhaustion and grief sat so heavily on his breast he could barely keep his head above water. Never mind that he was so lonely he could hardly stand it, aching constantly for touch and yet recoiling every time an advisor’s shoulder brushed his own or a body servant smoothed his robes. Never mind that he could not stop replaying in his head everything he had said to his father on their last meeting, everything he had not said, everything he wished he could say now; never mind that what he wanted more than anything else was for his father to be here with him now to tell him what to do.

But his father was dead; dead and gone. Fingon was alone. Surely even death was a better fate than that.

On a day like every other day that had come before it, Fingon was nursing a throbbing headache.

Court had dragged on for hours, and though it was still early enough in the evening for grey light to be slanting in through the high arched windows, by the time Fingon was letting himself into his father’s apartments he wished nothing more than to draw the curtains, collapse into bed, and hope in vain that sleep would come.

A body servant greeted him upon his return, ready to disrobe him of his complex court finery. She was a young, overeager thing, appropriately deferential and yet always a little bit too enthusiastic to talk at him if he should give her an opening for conversation. Perhaps it was cruel, but tonight Fingon could not cope.

“I need no aid tonight.” He busied himself filling a glass with water from the pitcher on the corner table so he had an excuse to keep his back turned. “You may go.”

His ears pricked at the sound of her shuffling feet as she hesitated. Fingon closed his eyes. He willed himself not to get cross with her.

“My King, are you certain?” she said anxiously. “The clasps on your robes are delicate, and I could—”

“No.” He turned and plastered on a tight-lipped smile. “I will manage.”

He felt a little guilty, then, for disappointment was writ clear across her face. But this time she took the dismissal in stride, colour creeping up her cheeks as she bowed and made her exit. Fingon followed her to the door, his smile dropping the second she was gone, and locked it after her.

Locking the door did very little to prevent access to these chambers. Several of the high-ranking staff had keys to the King’s apartments, and Gwánthon had one for the inner bedchamber. Still, the finality of the latch sliding into place brought Fingon such overwhelming relief he sagged against the door, his forehead pressed to the cool wood. Even breathing in and out felt like climbing the steepest heights of the Pelóri.

After several minutes he worked up the energy to straighten and begin the arduous process of getting undressed. He did not make it more than three steps towards the closet before a crisp knock came at the door.

Fingon had to resist the urge to break something. He stalked back to the door and put on something resembling a smile as he swung it open.

“My King.” The guard spoke quickly and without preamble, very slightly out of breath. “Your cousin has just arrived.”

Fingon’s heart tripped nearly to a stop.

“Which cousin?” he demanded, before pushing past the guard without waiting for an answer.

It had to be him. Fingon’s footsteps echoed off the stone as he strode briskly through the corridor with just enough presence of mind to walk and not run. It had to be him. Didn’t it? Who else could it be?

Finrod, supplied a voice from the rational part of his mind. And it would make more sense. Nargothrond was not so far, and of course Finrod would think to come to him in his hour of grief, dear friend that he was. Orodreth, too, was close by in Minas Tirith, but surely he would not leave the watchtower in the hands of another at a time like this.[1]

One of Maedhros’ brothers, then? If it was as Maedhros’ letter had said and all besides Himring had fallen, perhaps they had come to seek refuge? But then why not go to Himring? Or even Nargothrond? Most of Fëanor’s brood hated Fingon, and they would hate him all the more now that the kingship had fallen to him. Could they have come to challenge his claim to the throne?

“Where is my cousin?” Fingon called out to the guards stationed on either side of the main doors, forcing himself to slow down as he descended the grand staircase.

“My King!” Gwánthon emerged suddenly from the great hall to the right, only to be nearly bowled over by Fingon in his haste. “Lord, if you wish to go to your hall I will bring him to you to be received—”

“No,” Fingon cut him off, and then to one of the guards, “Outside?”

“Yes, Lord,” came the hasty reply.

Fingon threw open the great elm doors and stepped out into the damp, grey evening. He shielded his eyes against the drizzling rain and squinted across the courtyard. There, waiting behind the slowly-raising gate, was a tall, cloaked figure on horseback.

The lump that had been forming at the back of Fingon’s throat for the past several minutes grew suddenly so sharp he could barely swallow around it.

It was him. It was— Fingon would know him anywhere, by shape alone.

The moment the gate was fully raised Maedhros urged his steed forward into the courtyard. Anaroch’s hooves clopped briskly across slick cobblestone, just a touch too hurried to be truly proper, and through the cloud of cold, grey mist, Maedhros came into view.

Something inside of Fingon wavered and threatened to crack.

How long now had he been enduring alone? How many weeks since his father’s death; how many months before it, during which he could do nothing but watch as his father slowly succumbed to grief and despair? And now Maedhros was here, tall and striking against a vast grey sky, wearing a face so dear and familiar and longed-for that the sight of him alone made Fingon’s heart ache like it was breaking open.

Fingon’s breathing grew shallow. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. He grasped out desperately for the wavering edges of his being, the places where everything he had kept so carefully locked down was threatening to spill over, and held himself together through sheer strength of will. He refused to fall to pieces now.

Maedhros had come alone, without his guard. He held himself with strength and grace as he ever did, but exhaustion was plain to read in the darkness underneath his eyes, the painful set of his right shoulder. The cloak he wore was weather-stained, his boots muddied with the dirt of the road, and stray locks of hair had escaped his hood to hang about his face in limp, damp strands, copper and silver, a single source of fire-bright warmth against the gloom.

With a barely-perceptible grimace he dismounted Anaroch and handed off her reins to a groom. Fingon stood rooted to the spot, his curls dripping, rainwater snaking down his spine. His fine robes were growing slowly plastered to his skin.

Alone, alone, alone— for so long he had been enduring alone. All these terrible days of fear and grief. Since the Siege was broken Fingon had longed for Maedhros’ warmth even more than he did in thirty years upon the frozen wastes of the Helcaraxë, and now Maedhros was here— wondrously, impossibly here. A horrible heat began to prickle behind Fingon’s eyes.

Maedhros ascended the short flight of steps and stood before him. He pulled back his hood and searched Fingon’s face, his tired mouth tugged down in a soft frown. Fingon blinked quickly and took a long, shallow breath. He would not cry; not here, not now.

He tried to speak but no sound would come. He forced himself to swallow around the jagged lump in his throat before trying again.

“My father is dead.”

It sounded like an accusation. Fingon hadn’t meant it that way, but it hung between them like one nonetheless.

“I know,” said Maedhros quietly. “I rode for Barad Eithel the moment I heard.”

Fingon nodded, once. When he grappled for something more to say he came up empty, his tenuous grasp on language fleeing entirely.

Maedhros seemed suddenly to remember that he should be kneeling. He sank gingerly to one knee upon the slick stone of the landing and took Fingon’s trembling hand in his own. He bowed his head and brushed a kiss over his knuckles.

Something load-bearing inside of Fingon shook loose, gave way, and crumbled to dust.

His breathing hitched. His next exhale was a drawn, shuddery thing. He blinked hard as his vision began to blur.

Not here. Please, not here.

Mercifully, Maedhros let go of his hand and rose. When he spoke again his words had taken on a new strength of surety.

“Come,” he said, and stepped back to guide Fingon inside. “Let us get out of the rain.”

Chapter End Notes

[1] This is one place where I've diverged from the Grey Annals dates. I've gone instead with the version from The Later Annals of Beleriand, which places the fall of Tol Sirion in 457. This is the version that Christopher Tolkien preferred, and what he used when putting together the published Silm. I have taken some liberties in deciding that "For nigh on two years after the Dagor Bragollach" is allowed to mean the very tail end of 457, although that isn't really relevant until the end of the fic, and only in a very minor way.

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